


We Two Alone Will Sing

by gloria_scott



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Baseball, Canon-Typical Violence, Derogatory Language, Howling Commandos - Freeform, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prison Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-05 02:07:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4161573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloria_scott/pseuds/gloria_scott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the spring of '43, Bucky Barnes' luck is about to change. Serving three years in Sing Sing for assault, Bucky gets the opportunity of a lifetime to pitch in an exhibition game against the New York Yankees. He also gets a new cell mate: scrappy little Steve Rogers, antagonist of prison yard bullies. They strike up an unlikely friendship, and Bucky's team adopts Steve as their unofficial mascot. During the prison league series finals, Bucky gets a second opportunity to impress the co-owner of the Yankees, but when Steve gets injured before the big game, Bucky has to choose between his violent past and his hope for a better future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Two Alone Will Sing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gonergone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonergone/gifts).



> _Come, let's away to prison;_  
>  We two alone will sing like birds i' th' cage. – King Lear

I don't think I ever told you this, but your reputation preceded you by a long mile.    
  
You might have had the pleasure of my company a lot earlier if my transfer out of the old cell block hadn't been delayed. It was all fucking Connelly's fault. He had to get into it with me after our shift in the auto shop. All it got him was a monkey wrench upside the head for his troubles, and all it got me was six months added onto my time in the shit-hole-by-the-river.  
  
Officer Kruger saw the whole thing go down, or most of it anyway. I swear he watched me beat on the mick a solid five minutes before he pulled me off with a “Good job, Barnes. I'll take it from here.” I don't know what he told the disciplinary board, but they didn't take it to the DA. Between you, me, and the walls I think that guy's in somebody's pocket.  
  
At any rate, they kept putting me on the bottom of the waiting list to move out of the old cell block, so I had one hundred and eighty-three more days than I otherwise would have being cramped up with nothing but the stench of piss to keep me company. Could have been worse, I guess. My old man used to say, “Don't ever say things can't get any worse unless you want the devil to prove you wrong.” I took after him in the bad luck department that's for sure.  
  
But when they let me out of that cage the first week in April and escorted me up the hill to cell block A and into cell number 202 – holy Toledo! The air was fresh as a daisy! There was room enough for a chair to sit on like a civilized person! A sink with running water! A toilet that flushed! I thought I'd stumbled into the Ritz or something and any minute now the snooty manager was gonna drag me out by my collar for trespassing.    
  
There was a half-used bit of soap on the sink, and above it a handful of books sitting on a shelf next to a battered old cigar box. I'm no Sam Spade but it clued me in that I had a roommate – just didn't know who or where you were. I took the box down and looked through it. Just some blank papers, pencil stubs, and a crumpled pack of smokes (which I didn't take – you're welcome!). Under the papers was a picture of a woman, not too old, with blonde hair, tired eyes, and a soft smile. Sorta pretty, but she looked as worn around the edges as the photograph did.

Suddenly I felt like a creep prying into somebody's personal effects, so I put it all back the way I'd found it. I couldn't tell which bunk was yours, so when lights out came I stretched out on the bottom one. And let me tell you, I slept easier than I had in the three hundred and ninety-one days since I was sent up the river.  
  
When I bragged about having the place to myself at ball practice two days later, Dugan just laughed and shook his head.  
  
“Enjoy it while it lasts, kid,” he said, tossing my last pitch back to me. “But just you wait until Rogers gets back.”  
  
“Rogers, huh? You know him?”  
  
The rest of the team stopped what they were doing and gathered around me and Dugan, like that was their cue.  
  
“Everybody knows him,” said Jones. “You mean you haven't heard of Steve 'Bad News' Rogers?”  
  
“He has what you call a... réputation?” said Dernier.  
  
“Yeah, you're in for a treat,” said Jones.  
  
“Well if you know so much, where's he been?”  
  
Jones shrugged. “Solitary, most likely. I heard he busted a guy up just for looking at him sideways.”  
  
“The hell he did!” I laughed.  
  
“I believe it was two gentlemen, and one of them ended up in the hospital with a ruptured spleen,” Monty added.  
  
Then Morita jumped in. “Naw, it was two guys and the guard who tried to break 'em up. It took three more guards just to take Rogers down.”  
  
“Come on, really?” I was sure they were pulling my leg. I mean, if this guy they were talking about really was all that, I would have heard about him before, right? But the look on Dugan's face sobered me up. “Okay, so what's he in for?”  
  
“Ten years for knocking someone off,” Dugan said.  
  
“You're a bunch of filthy liars!”  
  
Dugan put his hands up, like he was absolving himself of my welfare. “Don't say we didn't warn you.”  
  
All the others nodded, dead straight, not a smirk or smile among them. At that point I'd been around Mr. Dum Dum Dugan enough to know he's got a couple of tells – he pulls on the bill of his cap with his left hand, or strokes that damn mustache with a knuckle on his right. He didn't do either. And he's no shrinking violet himself. Busted a Pinkerton's head open during a union “negotiation” a few years back. So if he was wary, I figured this guy Rogers must be a beast.  
  
Maybe if I'm honest, I didn't sleep so good that night. There's nothing that makes hard time even harder than having to watch your back in your own damn cell.  
  
When you finally showed up after supper the next night wearing a hard look and prison grays two sizes too big, I thought there must have been some kind of mistake. Either that or Dugan and the boys had left out a few pertinent details. I mean come on, this skinny little bean pole of a kid was the big bad bruiser they had warned me about?  
  
“Hey! Where ya been, roomie?” I got up to maybe shake hands with you because I was raised right, and you stopped me dead in my tracks with that steel-blue glare. You didn't move an inch from where the guard left you, your hands balled up into fists under rolled up sleeves that were still too long.  
  
“Who the fuck are you?”  
  
Even though I was trying my best to get off on the right foot, you weren't going to make it easy for me, were you?  
  
“My name's Barnes, James Barnes, but you can call me Bucky.”  
  
“Why the fuck would I do that?”  
  
Nope, not easy at all.  
  
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”  
  
“My mother's dead.”  
  
“Sorry, I didn't...”  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
And that was the start of a beautiful friendship.  
  
In spite of your lousy attitude, I liked you. Come to find out later that most of cell block A did, too, including Dugan and the others. Even the guards liked you, or else you would have never survived an hour in this place. You know it and I know it.  
  
But right then, you didn't trust me and I didn't quite know what to make of you. You looked around to make sure nothing had been touched. I was kind of relieved you didn't seem to notice I'd pawed through your stuff.  
  
“I can take the top bunk if you like. I'm...easy,” I said as you brushed past me and climbed up to the top bunk.  
  
“Suit yourself.”  
  
I didn't hear a peep from you after that. The guards called for lights out, and I settled in and spent the next hour planning how I was gonna pay Dugan back for all his shit stirring.

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

Winter's last gasp lasted the better part of a week. First a late snowstorm on Monday, then rain and freezing temperatures kept all of us cooped up in our cells when we weren't working or eating. Might as well have still been alone for all the attention you payed me. All of my attempts at witty conversation were met with shrugs and sharp retorts. So I let you be.  
  
On Saturday morning they let us out, and let me tell you it felt good getting out of those prison grays and back into my practice uniform for the first time that week. I caught up with Dugan heading out to the muddy ball field and landed a punch right on one of those meaty wings of his.  
  
“Owww!” he said, grabbing his arm dramatically and rubbing it. “What was that for?”  
  
“You know damn well what that was for.”  
  
He laughed. “So I guess Rogers finally showed up, huh?”  
  
“Yeah he showed up. I knew you assholes were all full of shit.”  
  
“We didn't exaggerate...too much. He's small but he's a scrapper.”    
  
“Yeah, whatever you say. So what did he really do to land in here?”  
  
“Ask him yourself.”  
  
“I ain't asking him shit.”  
  
“I told you, he killed a guy,” Dugan said as the rest of the team caught up to us.  
  
“So what, I gotta sleep with one eye open?”  
  
Dugan shrugged.  
  
“Rogers is okay,” Jones said. “He's just a little guy who can't keep his mouth shut. Always got something to prove.”  
  
“He keeps his mouth shut around me pretty good.”  
  
“That means he fancies you,” Monty said, and the gang all laughed.  
  
“You guys are assholes.”  
  
When we got to the field, Sergeant Duffy came up out of the bullpen carrying two big equipment bags.  
  
“Okay ladies, gather around,” he said, dropping the bags and waving us over. “Director Phillips has something he wants to run past you lot so I expect you to be on your best behavior and give him your undivided attention.”  
  
Before he even finished saying it Phillips, the athletic director, came waltzing across the field and stopped just next to Duffy. He had another fella with him who I couldn't place, dressed to the nines and smelling like he was made of money. Real handsome, too, although standing next to Phillips and his weather-beaten face would make anyone look good.  
  
“Mr. Stark, I'd like you to meet Sergeant Duffy, our head coach for the varsity squad. And right here,” he said waving me over, “is Mr. Barnes, our team captain and star pitcher.”  
  
I may not have known him by sight, but I knew him by reputation. Mr. Howard Stark was a bigwig businessman and part owner of the New York Yankees. He'd been pals with Warden Lawes before the old man retired, and had financed the purchase of new uniforms for all the varsity teams – including the ones we all were wearing – and equipment for the gymnasium in '41. So I was inclined to like him, even in spite of his good fortune.  
  
I held out my hand and he gave it a firm shake.  
  
“How do you do, Mr. Barnes? Director Phillips tells me you've got quite an arm.”  
  
“Well, that's awfully nice of him to say.”  
  
“It's been my experience Phillips isn't an awfully nice guy – no offense!” he said, clapping Phillips on the shoulder.  
  
“None taken.”  
  
“And he's not one to mince words. If he says you're good, you're good. Say, do you think you might be up for a little challenge?”  
  
“What did you have in mind?”  
  
“Well, my team, the Yankees – maybe you've heard of them?”  
  
That got a laugh out of all of us. “Yeah, maybe I have.”  
  
“We couldn't get down to Florida for our usual spring training, travel restrictions being what they are because of the war and all, so we're stuck up here in New Jersey. And seeing as how we're sort of in the neighborhood, I thought maybe we'd stop by. My boys are itching for a real game and you have one of the better ball fields around. An exhibition game might be just what they need, if you'd be kind enough to host one. Does that sound like something you fellows would be interested in?”  
  
I looked around at the wide-eyed faces of my teammates, and was pretty sure I looked just as stunned. “Yes, sir!” I finally said. “We sure would.”  
  
“Aces! I'll arrange it, then. Two weeks from today. And you'd better bring your A-game, boys, because we're not going to go easy on you.”  
  
He left us with a grin and a wink. Me and the others just stood there slack-jawed watching him and Phillips walk up the hill towards the administration building, until Duffy broke the trance with a shrill tweet on his whistle.  
  
“Alright, fall in! You heard the fancy gentleman. We only have two weeks to get your sorry asses into shape. Now hop to it.”  
  
We ran laps until my lungs burned and my legs got shaky. Then Duffy had me throwing until I thought my arm was gonna fall off. I didn't even care – I could have done it all day I was that over the moon.

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

It was as noisy as ever in the cell block that night before lights out and we were alone, just the two of us, in the oasis of quiet that was cell 202A.  
  
It was really getting on my nerves.  
  
Didn't seem to bother you any. You just laid there up in your bunk reading Gulliver's Travels, with me pacing like a lion in front of the cage door. I couldn't stop thinking about that exhibition game against the Yankees – the honest-to-goodness New York Yankees! Not those PONY League wannabes from Wellsville. It was looking like the opportunity of a lifetime, and I was getting pretty creative coming up with all the ways I could possibly blow it. I needed a distraction.  
  
“Always with your nose in a book,” I snarled. “How about you humor me and make some conversation for a change?”  
  
“What do you want to talk about?” you said, nose still firmly in book.  
  
“I don't know. Anything.” Anything to keep my mind from spinning in circles about the damn game. “How come I never see you outside of here and the mess hall? What shop they got you working at?”  
  
“Can't work the shops. I got asthma and between the fumes and the dust it'd kill me. I'm in the library most days, and I teach a couple of the literacy classes. Hey, if you want,” you said, laying your book down and finally looking at me, “if you want I could tutor you or...”  
  
“I know how to read and write, asshole. I was practically valedictorian at St. Joseph's.”  
  
I felt bad for snapping at you and cutting you short, especially since that was the chattiest you'd been since I got there. You were just offering me a hand and I rapped you on the knuckles for it. But you thinking I was one of those dumb mooks who couldn't even scrawl their own name really stung.  
  
“Yeah?” you sneered, all buttoned up tight again. “If you're so smart, how'd you end up here?”  
  
“None of your damn business.” What I'd said was true. I would have been valedictorian, if I had graduated. I wasn't about to get into all that with you – how I'd had to drop out after my old man died, how I fell in with O'Toole's gang and went from making deliveries to putting the squeeze on the Italians in no time flat. How the cops got the drop on us and I took a swing at one of 'em to take the heat off Hank and Joey so they could get away. I only did what I had to do. Didn't know if you'd understand. “Just in the wrong place at the wrong time is all.”  
  
“So you're innocent, just like everyone else in here, huh?”  
  
“There were extenuating circumstances.”  
  
You shot me a lopsided grin and picked up your book again. “There always are.”

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

Before I knew it, the day of the Exhibition game came and went. On a brisk and bleak Saturday afternoon at the tail end of April, the Sing Sing Howling Coyotes played the New York Yankees to a sold out crowd. In spite of Stark's big talk, I think they kind of did go easy on us. Even so they still wound up trouncing us thirteen to three. We weren't ready for a game like that, not by a long shot. I guess we could have practiced every day for a year and probably still couldn't have stood up to a pro team like the Yanks, even with some of their best players scooped up by the draft. Still, I got to shake hands with everyone and got them to sign a ball for me. That was a high point, for sure. Maybe almost worth going to prison for!  
  
But you want to know what the best part was? The best part was when Howard Stark came down out of the bleachers with Warden Kirby. He came right over to me and grabbed my hand – he was so excited I thought for a second he was gonna hug me.  
  
“Great game, wasn't it?” Stark said, smiling like a million bucks. “I have to admit, I wasn't expecting much, but you boys did all right. No, really! Phillips was right about that arm of yours.”  
  
I could barely stutter out a thank you, I was so tongue-tied.  
  
“Next time I come out here,” he went on, “I'm bringing my talent scout with me. This place is a goldmine of untapped potential.”  
  
He said his goodbyes and left me standing there, gaping. I looked around. All the other guys were chatting it up with the pro players. No one had heard what Stark said but me.  
  
I walked back up the hill to the cell block in kind of a daze, just replaying everything over and over in my mind. Supper was a blur; I don't think I hardly ate anything. When I got back to the cell you were there, lounging on your bunk with a magazine. Suddenly it was like a spell was lifted, and I could hardly contain myself.  
  
“Were you there?” I said, rushing up to you. “Did you see the game?”  
  
“Yeah, I was there. For part of it, anyway. Sullivan filled me in on the rest.”  
  
“They whipped us pretty good, huh?”  
  
You glanced at me and I guess you decided to give me the time of day, because you tossed your magazine and turned over, propping yourself up on an elbow.  
  
“I think you did okay. Scored three runs against one of the best American League teams out there, that's not nothing.”  
  
“Yeah, but we gave up thirteen, and I couldn't get a single thing past Dickey or Gordon. I gotta work on my fast ball some more.”  
  
You shrugged. “Wouldn't hurt. But it was a good game, Bucky.”  
  
I was busting to tell someone what Stark had said to me about the scout and all that, but I didn't want to jinx it. So I kept my mouth shut and flopped down on my bunk. Kept me awake half the night just thinking about it, though.

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

It was the coldest May I could remember, and I think that kept you inside even more than your love of a good book. We started playing our regular season games, some against the other shop teams plus our Saturday double-headers against visiting local community and minor league teams. Must have been too cold up in those bleachers for you not having any padding on you to keep your bones from rattling. But when June rolled around and the weather finally warmed up, you started coming out to all the games. Just in time to catch our third straight loss to the team from the brush shop.  
  
They were pretty good. Out of all the shops, they had more than their fair share of decent players. In fact, apart from me and Jones and a couple others, most of the varsity squad had been recruited from there. They were like our second string. Except you wouldn't know we were supposed to be the better team because they kept trouncing us.    
  
Hodge was their heavy hitter, a real masher, and the new team captain since Ellis got paroled after last season. Plus they had a few more sluggers on the roster and a half-way decent pitcher. I guess it was enough to give us a run for our money. That day we lost seven to three, and boy did it sting.  
  
After the game, me and the guys were all pretty aggravated. While everyone else cleared off and headed back up the hill for supper, we loitered in front of the dugout just to gripe at each other. Dugan thought Monty needed to hustle more and Jones thought Dernier couldn't hit worth a damn and Morita thought we all had our heads up our asses.  
  
“I just don't get it,” I said, tossing my glove at the equipment bag lying nearby. “We can't get a leg up on 'em, and I don't know why!”  
  
“I know why.”  
  
I turned around and there you were, hands stuffed in your pockets and a cig dangling from your lips. Couldn't tell how long you'd been standing there listening to us. No offense, but you were pretty easy to overlook.  
  
“What do you know about it?” I said. “You can't even play.”  
  
You tilted your head up and squared your jaw at the challenge. “I got eyes and a brain in my head. Do you wanna know, or do you just want the boys from the brush shop to keep murdering you?”  
  
“Okay, wise ass. Spill it.”  
  
“Well first of all, half of you need to be more patient when you're up at bat. Dernier's not the only one who can't seem to wait for his pitch. Plus they've got more dead pull hitters than just Franklin; you need to shift for Anderson and Peters, too. And if you ever want to strike Hodge out, throw a slider low and away. He'll swing at 'em even out of the strike zone.”  
  
We all laughed it off, but Sergeant Duffy had been listening, too. He stood there kind of thoughtful with his arms crossed.  
  
“He's right. Come Monday, you boys are going back to remedial batting practice. And Barnes, you're going to work on that slider. We'll give 'em what for next game.”  
  
We all kind of gaped at him for a second. When I'd turned to snipe at you again for thinking you were so smart, you'd already walked off the field.  
  
A couple weeks later, we finally had a rematch and I almost blew it. Even though Duffy'd made me practice it for two straight weeks, I refused to throw that damn slider. I just wasn't gonna give you the satisfaction. Every time Hodge came up to bat, Dugan would flash two fingers, calling for a slider, low and away. Every time I'd shake my head and throw something else. And every time that bastard Hodge would get another base hit.  
  
Bottom of the ninth. The game was all tied up, sending us into extra innings. No runs scored in the tenth, then in the top of the eleventh Dugan knocked one out of the park. The crowd went wild, and he took his time rounding the bases, just eating it up. That was the last run we scored. Two quick outs care of Dernier and Monty, and we were headed onto the field again.  
  
I retired the first two batters easy. Then Davis broke my streak, hitting a single off a wicked line drive to right field. The momentum was on their side after that. On an oh and two count, Rizzo hit a single out to left field. Davis should have been tagged out at second, but Junior overthrew it to Morita and it went right through his glove. I scooped it up and sent it over to Dugan, holding Davis at third base.  
  
Two outs, two men on base when Hodge came up to bat. Rizzo kept taunting me, leading off first base and threatening to steal. Davis was poised on third, ready to sprint home. Dugan flashed two fingers. I shook my head and spit. I threw a change-up instead, and the ump called a strike.  
  
I shot Dugan a look like, _See, I know what I'm doing_. My self-satisfaction didn't last long, though. After the next couple of throws the count was three and one and I was getting frustrated. A solid base hit would at best load the bases and at worst bring Davis in to tie it up again. If Hodge really connected he'd bring them all in and we'd lose the damn game.    
  
I faked a wind up then threw it to Jones like I was trying to keep Rizzo from stealing second, but really I was just stalling. I was all tensed up, felt as if I was being pulled apart in a tug-of-war that had my stubborn pride as the center flag. Dugan flashed two fingers again, and I wanted to punch him right in the mouth. I glanced over at the third base line and caught sight of you, quietly sitting there and taking it all in with this solemn, serious look on your face.  
  
Okay fine, I figured. We'll do it your way.  
  
Dugan flashed two fingers again and I nodded. I wound up the pitch and let it fly.    
  
A swing and a miss. Strike two.  
  
Half the crowd cheered while the other half booed. Dugan tossed the ball back to me. I didn't want to give Hodge too much time to recover and think about it, so as soon as he went into his stance I let the same pitch fly again.  
  
Strike three. Game over.  
  
You jumped to your feet, cheering like crazy. Although I hated to admit it, I'm pretty sure if I hadn't been so pig-headed and just listened to you in the first place we could have wrapped it up in the ninth. I gave you a little tip of the cap and bowed. You earned that one, I guess.

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

After that, you were an official, unofficial member of the team. Our Secret Weapon. You had a keen mind for the strategy of the game and picking out a batter's weakness, even if you couldn't swing a bat yourself without falling over. By mid-July, we were at twenty-one and nine, and on the way to having the best win-loss record of any Sing Sing team since 1920.  
  
Only one drawback – our Secret Weapon had a hair trigger.  
  
I was working on my fast ball with Dugan. He caught the last pitch, then stood up slowly and pushed his catcher's mask up onto his head, staring at something going on behind me. I turned around to look out past the visitors' bleachers towards the north end of the field. Sure enough, you were in trouble. Again.  
  
“Whose turn is it?” I asked.  
  
“Yours,” Dugan said. “I got him out of the scrape with Kowalski last week.”  
  
“And I took a punch from Rizzo for him the week before that,” Jones said.  
  
“Just yesterday...” Morita began, but I didn't let him finish.  
  
“Okay, okay. I'm going.”  
  
You were cursing a blue streak, getting as much into Hodge's face as you could, considering he stood almost a foot taller than you. Little Ricky Sullivan was skulking away from the ruckus, so it was a pretty good bet he was the match that started the fire under your ass this time. He was a good kid but more than a little slow, and an easy target for guys like Hodge to torment.  
  
By the time I got over to you, Hodge had grown tired of you shoving him – like some kinda ant trying to move a mountain – and had picked you up and tossed you on your keister.  
  
I grabbed him and shoved him back. “Why don't you go pick on someone your own size?”  
  
“Like you?”  
  
“Yeah, like me.”  
  
Hodge sized me up but thought better of it once the rest of the team crowded up behind me. He spit and then took a drag on his cigarette before hoofing it.  
  
I turned to offer you a hand up, which you ignored so you could struggle to your feet on your own. Stubborn ass.  
  
“You're welcome,” I said.  
  
“I don't need your help, Bucky. I know how to take care of myself.”  
  
I swung an arm around your shoulder and started walking. “You don't know your ass from your elbow.”  
  
“I was doing just fine before you got here.”  
  
“Yeah, you were hunky-dory, ending up in the hospital every other week.”  
  
“The hospital's not such a bad place. It's a state-of-the-art facility.”  
  
“I guess you would know. Listen, I've been watching you, Rogers. I think I'm starting to get what makes you tick. Wanna know what I've seen?”  
  
I expected a hearty “Fuck off!” but you just looked at me and narrowed your eyes. “What?”  
  
I knew I was about to stick my foot into a mine field but I decided to chance it anyway.  
  
“Well, for one thing I've only ever seen you pick on guys bigger than you. I guess you figure that makes it a fair fight.” That got a slight grin out of you, so I kept going. “I've seen you've got a temper on you, but you only ever go after bullies like Hodge, and you're more likely to defend someone else than yourself. I've seen that you're not afraid to stick your neck out for other people, and maybe I kinda admire that.”  
  
I'd seen other things, too. Like your kindness and your smarts, the way you ragged on me and the team and made us laugh, and how your shoulders sagged with the weight of a sadness you never talked about. I figured I should keep all that to myself. I know you wouldn't agree, but too much honesty can be a bad thing.  
  
“That's what you see, huh?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Better get your eyes checked.” You shrugged my arm off your shoulder and headed off alone towards the library.  
  
I figured you'd stay sore about me stepping in to rescue you, maybe give me the silent treatment for a few days again. But actually, after that things were different.

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

The first night you came to me after lights out, I was just lying in bed minding my own business, trying to jerk off as quiet as possible. I opened my eyes to the sound of a creak and the sight of your head hanging down over the top bunk, watching me.  
  
“Do you mind?”  
  
You withdrew but the interruption had already broken my stride. I was still deciding if I should just forget about it or try to rub one out anyway, when out of the blue you hopped right down and joined me.  
  
“Want a hand with that?”  
  
Before I could even answer, you were reaching down the front of my skivvies.  
  
I let slip a groan and you shushed me and pressed your other hand against my mouth. It occurred to me maybe I ought to tell you to stop, but I didn't. If I'm honest, I didn't really want you to stop. A man can get a little too familiar with himself in places like this, if you know what I mean. So it was real nice, feeling the touch of someone else for a change.  
  
Maybe it was wrong, but I just closed my eyes and gave in to it. You worked me over pretty good. I was almost there when you let go of me, breaking my stride again just so you could pull your own pants down to give me a handful.  We clung to each other like that, the palm of your hand still pressed against my lips, your forehead pressed against mine, both of us moving in time with each other.  
  
I finished first, but then I had a solid head start. When you finally came, you lay still against me, and I wrapped my arms around you. As small as you were, you weren't frail. There was hardly any give to you at all, like your bones were made of rebar or something. I liked the feel of you. It was kinda like for once I had something solid to hang onto, when I hadn't even realized I'd been adrift.  
  
I didn't want to let you go just yet, but you slipped from my grasp without a word and climbed back up to your bunk. A few seconds later, the guards came by making their rounds. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep as the flashlight beam washed over the cell, my heartbeat still pounding like a kettle drum in my ears.

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

The night I thought I'd lost you I couldn't sleep worth a damn. I knew you were awake, too; I could hear you tossing and turning like you couldn't get comfortable. No sense in both of us suffering alone, so I knocked real soft on the underside of your bunk.  
  
“Come down.”  
  
You didn't answer, but you stopped moving around. I hated when you ignored me. I'd rather you told me to go fuck myself over giving me the cold shoulder, to be honest.  
  
“Fine, be that way.”  
  
I guess I must have dozed off eventually, because next thing I knew I woke up with a start to the sound of you gasping and wheezing like you couldn't get any air in your lungs.  
  
I scrambled up to check on you.  
  
“Rogers! Hey, Rogers! Steve! You okay?”  
  
It was a stupid thing to ask. You clearly weren't okay, farthest thing from it. You couldn't even answer me, you just lay there looking up at me with scared, wild eyes.  
  
I jumped down and started banging on the cell door.  
  
“Help! We need help in here!  
  
“What's going on, Buck?” Dugan called from down the row.  
  
“He can't breathe!”  
  
Straight away, Dugan started clambering on the bars of his cell, whooping and hollering. Then another guy started up, and another. Pretty soon the alarm had swept through the whole cell block like a wildfire. They'd obviously done this before.  
  
I kept pressing my face against the bars to see if help was on the way. After a year the cell block door finally opened and Kruger came sauntering out, taking his sweet old time. As soon as I saw him, I ran to the bunk and grabbed you out of it, stood there shaking with you turning blue in my arms, and me shouting at that asshole to hurry up already.  
  
As soon as Kruger opened the cell door I booked it, him trotting after me telling me to slow down. But I didn't. I couldn't. I ran as fast as I ever ran in my life, out of that cell block, across the courtyard and into the hospital.  
  
As soon as I busted through the doors, the night guard jumped up and escorted me into the ward, calling for the doc. He directed me to a bed where I laid you down, and the doc came out right quick wheeling some green tanks on a cart and giving the orderly a mouthful of jargon I didn't understand.  
  
They'd done this before, too.  
  
“Alright Barnes, fun time's over. Back to your cell,” Kruger said.  
  
He had to drag me out of there. The last I saw of you, they'd slapped a mask on your face and were tapping on your arm trying to find a place to stick you.  
  
When I got back to the cell block, it was dead quiet.  
  
“How's he doing? Did he make it?” Dugan asked as I walked passed him.  
  
I just shrugged and shook my head. Kruger locked me back in, and I spent a long, sleepless night alone with nothing but the worst kind of thoughts filling my head.

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

I figured if you had bought the farm they'd have said something. That kind of news travels fast around here. Still, lunchtime rolled around with no word on your condition, and I was going out of my mind with worry. So I took matters into my own hands.  
  
I had Jones take the point of a screw filed sharp and slice open my scalp above my right eye. It was supposed to be just a little nick, but he really did a job on me. Gotta wonder what that was payback for. I was already bleeding pretty good when I made a big show of pretending the hood of the car I'd been servicing fell on me. Boy did I holler! It was quite a performance. Maybe I ought to be on Broadway.  
  
Anyway, it worked. I was escorted to the hospital toot sweet.  
  
I don't know why I even bothered. I walked in and there you were all propped up on some pillows like the King of Siam, with a gorgeous dame sitting on the edge of your bed. Didn't know if she was your type, but she was definitely mine: dark-eyed brunette with ruby-red lips and killer gams under that starched white uniform. Hot damn!  
  
“I didn't know they had dames working here now,” I said, taking a seat on the bed next to yours.  
  
“They don't.” Your voice was wispy and hollow from last night's ordeal. “Nurse Carter's no dame, she's a competent professional. Watch your mouth.”  
  
“Pardon me, Nurse Carter.” I tipped my imaginary cap to her.  
  
“Peggy, this is my cell mate, James Barnes.”  
  
“My friends call me Bucky, but you can call me anytime,” I said, turning on the charm as well as I could with a bloody shop rag held to my skull.  
  
“What did you do to your head, Mr. Barnes?” she said in a way that made me think she might be impervious to charm.  
  
“Smacked it on the hood of a Ford coupe.”  
  
“Well that was awfully careless of you. Let's have a look.” She was all business, pulling the rag out of my hand and tilting my head to the side so she could see better. Then she leaned in and I caught a whiff of roses under the scent of rubbing alcohol and Ivory soap. I could have died happy right then.  
  
“He just missed the sight of me is all,” you said. Can't help but think you might have been a little jealous of the attention she was paying me. I would have been if I was you.  
  
“Yeah, right. I just needed to make sure you weren't dead. You gave us all a scare last night, you know.”  
  
“Rogers here is made of sterner stuff than he looks,” Nurse Peggy said, and I could have sworn she made eyes at you.  
  
“Yeah,” I said, “don't I know it.”  
  
“Well, the bleeding has mostly stopped and the laceration isn't very deep, however I think you could do with a few sutures. I'll just get everything ready.” She got up and I watched her walk the length of the ward, and it was all I could do not to whistle.  
  
I turned to you and grinned, but you had your disapproving face on.  
  
“Lighten up, would you? She's something else and you know it.”  
  
She came back carrying a small metal tray full of medical instruments. Maybe I got a little queasy when she pulled out that syringe that was at least twice as big as it needed to be. You looked at me and laughed.  
  
“This is the part where you wish you hadn't called her a dame.”

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

They kept you there for a couple of days and I'm sure you didn't mind at all. I got bored without you here to talk to at night, so I went poking around again. That's how I found them, just a corner of the papers sticking out from under your mattress. I didn't know you were an artist. Why did you keep them hid away? They should have been up on the wall or something. It would have brightened the place up.  
  
I lay back on my bunk and leafed through sketch after sketch. When you finally walked in I sat up all ready to welcome you home, but before I could you were snapping my head off.  
  
“What do you think you're doing?”  
  
“These are really good. You draw 'em?”  
  
“Give 'em back!” The red started creeping up your cheeks and I knew I was in for it.  
  
“What are ya getting so hot for? I said they're good.”  
  
You snatched them out of my hands and tossed them up on your bunk, then took a wild swing at me. I ducked it and jumped up to miss the next punch you'd aimed at my head. I don't think I ever saw you so mad.  
  
You kept coming at me like a rabid, spitting cat, backing me up until there was nowhere left to go. And you didn't stop, you got me by the shirt and kept shoving me into the steel wall, hurling every insult you could think at me. Over the din of your shouting I could hear the jeers of the eavesdroppers outside laughing about the 'lovers' quarrel' in 202.  
  
There was a moment – a flash of anger – that I knew I could have laid you out with one swipe. But I didn't. You would have deserved it, but I didn't. You were burning up and I guess somehow that was my fault, so I should try to fix it. I grabbed you by the shoulders and held you still.  
  
“Would you relax for a minute and tell me what I did?”  
  
“What gives you the right to paw my stuff?” you hollered.  
  
“I'm sorry, okay? I shouldn't have done it.”  
  
You let go of me and backed up out of my reach, still breathing heavy and glaring.  
  
“It's just that,” I stopped, surprised at the sting in my eyes and the sudden knot in my throat drawing my voice in tight. “They're real pretty. And there's not a lot of pretty to look at in here, you know?”  
  
You looked away from me, and your hands relaxed out of their fisted fighting stance. Then you hopped up to your bunk, gathered the pictures together, and came and sat down on mine. I hesitated a minute, but it seemed like an invitation so I sat down next to you.    
  
“This is DiPaolo's, the Italian bakery in my old neighborhood, around the corner from the bar I worked at.”  
  
“I think I know that place – it's around Montague Street, right? You draw that from memory?”  
  
“No dumbass, I got a photo of it right here,” you said, grabbing your crotch. I punched your arm and you smirked.  
  
“You gotta be like that all the time?”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“Like a porcupine with his quills up.”  
  
You just shrugged and pulled out another picture, this one a woman in a nurse's uniform.  
  
“That's not a very good likeness of Peggy.”  
  
“It's not Peggy.”    
  
That's when I remembered the old photo I caught a glimpse of in that cigar box of yours. Only she hadn't been wearing a nurse's uniform then. Somehow I knew it was your mom, but you didn't say so and I didn't ask.  
  
The next one you tried to skip past quick but I caught you.  
  
“Well, what do ya know? That's my ugly mug.”  
  
“You have an interesting face.” The red crept up your cheeks again, but this time it wasn't anger.  
  
“Yeah, right,” I laughed.  
  
I wasn't done looking, but you only let me see one or two more, then you gathered them up and retreated onto your bunk.  
  
It kind of felt like I was in the desert and you'd given me just a mouthful of water. Guess I didn't even realize how thirsty I was for something that wasn't drab walls, metal bars, and dirt. Maybe you sensed that and took pity on me, because the next thing I knew your hand was hanging down waving the bakery picture at me. I took it and spent the time before lights out drinking it up, memorizing every detail and adding in what might have been there beyond the edges of the paper. And in the dark before I fell asleep I was there, standing on that corner catching a whiff of fresh baked bread and watching the girls go by in their pencil skirts.

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

I kept wondering about you and that nurse, but it was a couple of days later before I brought it up again. We were tossing a ball around, waiting for the groundskeepers to come off the field so we could start practice. It was hot, and I was going easy on you, keeping an eye on you to make sure you didn't over exert yourself.  
  
“How come you never told me you had a girlfriend?”  
  
“Never told you because I don't.”  
  
“What about that nurse? Peggy What's-her-name?”  
  
“Peggy's not my girlfriend. She's...just a friend.”  
  
“You sly dog! How am I supposed to believe that, when you've been getting yourself sent to the hospital so often they've got a bed reserved with your name on it?  
  
“You're supposed to believe it because it's the truth.”  
  
“Okay fine, I believe you. Say, if you're not going to go for it, mind if I take a shot?”  
  
You caught the ball and paused, looking real thoughtful. “I do as a matter of fact.”  
  
“Yeah, that's what I thought.”  
  
“It doesn't matter, anyway,” you said, tossing the ball back. “She's classy and real smart, graduated with honors from nursing school. She'd never go with a con, not in a million years.”  
  
“So you're saying I got no chance?”  
  
“I'm saying she deserves better than either one of us.”  
  
I clutched at my chest. “You wound me, Horatio.”  
  
“The truth hurts sometimes.”  
  
“Yeah well, at least we got each other, right?”  
  
Just then Monty and Jones walked by making kissyface noises at us. You let one fly, and that ball beaned Monty right on the noggin, bouncing back almost to your feet. Monty cursed and Jones took off running before you could stoop to reload.

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

At the end of July, we got wind that Director Phillips had a big announcement to make. Me and the team were gathered together on the field an hour before our Saturday game against the Binghamton Triplets, while you were still up at the library or something. All the other shop teams were there too, buzzing and grumbling about what could be so important.  When Phillips showed up he was carrying the biggest, shiniest gold baseball trophy I ever saw outside of the World Series.  
  
“Listen up, gentlemen. In spite of the fact that his team gave us a fair trouncing, Mr. Howard Stark was very impressed with our varsity team's performance during that exhibition game back in April.”  
  
“The Yankees suck!” someone yelled and we all laughed. Well, all the Dodger fans, anyway.  
  
“He's decided to take a continuing interest in you lot, to the tune of sponsoring a playoff series from now through the end of September. You will be competing for this trophy,” he raised it up, “generously donated by Mr. Stark, which will be engraved with the winning team members' names and displayed in the prison visitors' center.”  
  
That got some murmuring and a lone “Whoop-de-do” from the back of the crowd.  
  
“In addition, each member of the winning team will receive $100 in cash that will be sent directly to their families.”  
  
Now that was something to cheer about, and we did – long and loud. Phillips let us get it out of our system, and that was the closest I ever saw his craggy old face come to cracking a smile.    
  
“Now here's how it's going to work,” he continued. “The varsity team has secured a spot in the final series on account of they're better than the rest of you.”  
  
A loud “boo!” went up from the crowd, but me and Dugan and the rest of the team just laughed.  
  
“Tough shit, suckers!” Dugan yelled.  
  
“Also,” Phillips raised a hand and the noise died down, “they already have a full schedule against visiting teams for the rest of the season, so we can't change that. The eight shop teams will compete over the next month in a series of best-of-five games to determine who the varsity team plays in the final. The schedule will be up in the mess hall by Monday morning. Any questions?”  
  
“Yeah,” I jumped in. “Is Stark gonna be at the games?”  
  
“Mr. Stark is a busy man, but he has assured me he will make every effort to attend the final series, schedule permitting.”  
  
“What if we got no family?”  
  
“Is that trophy real gold?”  
  
“Can we play the shoe factory first? I wanna put them out of their misery quick.”  
  
The guys had a million questions, but I wasn't really listening anymore. My head was in a daze, spinning wild with possibilities.  
  
Next time I come, I'm bringing my talent scout with me. This place is a goldmine of untapped potential.  
  
I'd replayed those words over and over in my head since I heard them, but I hadn't allowed myself to believe the truth of them. But there it was. Stark had a continuing interest in the team. He would be at the games, maybe he'd even bring along his scout like he said. I had a golden opportunity to impress them both, and if I did, well... things might actually work out for me for once in my life.

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

“What are you gonna do when you get out of here?” you asked me once. We were watching the barber shop duke it out against the knit shop on a Friday night – the final game of their series. I think you only asked the question because you wanted to tell me your plans, so I just played dumb.  
  
“Don't know. Hey, Charlie!” I called to the ump. “What are you blind? He was safe!” That tag out at first ended the inning, and there was a lull in the game as the barber shop took the field. I was friendly with a couple of the guys from there so I was pulling for them to win. Didn't really care too much, though, as long as one of them eventually knocked off the brush shop team. Fuck Hodge and those guys.    
  
“How about you?” I asked. “What do you wanna do?”  
  
“I'm gonna join the Army.” You were wearing your quiet, serious look, so I caught myself before I laughed.  
  
“The Army don't take ex-cons.” Or asthmatics who are a hundred pounds soaking wet.  
  
“They might, if they get desperate enough. You know they donated all the cell doors from the old cell block to the war effort, right? Just because it spent time in a prison doesn't mean it can't still be useful.”  
  
Steel was steel and could be melted down and made into tanks and trucks and bomb casings. What could you do?  
  
“You want to kill some Germans? Be a big hero?”  
  
“I don't want to kill anyone. You said it yourself – I don't like bullies. I don't care where they're from.”  
  
“Well, good luck with that.”  
  
“Look, I know you don't think I can do this. But there are men laying down their lives, Bucky. I got no right to do anything less than them.”  
  
I didn't know how much of your little speech was noble sentiment and how much was you just having something to prove. Who was I to shit on your dream, crazy as it might be? When I said good luck, I meant it and I didn't. If they took you, you'd just be cannon fodder. And if they didn't, well, I knew what it was like to have an idea about the future that you hang your hat on. One that maybe you wanted more than anything and it drove you mad just thinking about it, and about how life just doesn't work out that way for all of us.  
  
The knit shop runners got a couple of base hits, but my mind really wasn't on the game anymore. Or it was, just not that game.  
  
“So,” I said, “I was thinking, I don't know. Maybe when I get out of here I might want to keep doing this.”  
  
“Going to ball games?”  
  
“Playing ball games, you jerk. For real. In the big leagues.” I hadn't said any of this out loud before, but once I started I couldn't shut up about it. “It's not crazy you know. I mean, just look at Alabama Pitts. He got released back in '36 and the Senators grabbed him up. And if the war's still on when I get out of here in two years, they'll be gagging for decent players. They've already lost DiMaggio, Rizzuto, and Hassett. And the farms and minor leagues are having trouble scrounging up enough warm bodies to keep the rosters full. I don't know, maybe with all that going for me I might actually have a decent shot. Hell, Howard Stark said I had talent. Maybe he'd even let me try out for the Yankees.”  
  
“You really wanna play for the Yankees?” you said, nose wrinkled like you just caught a whiff of some bean fumes.  
  
“No, of course not! I'm from Brooklyn fer Chrissake. It's just that, if the opportunity presents itself I ain't gonna snub it. I could always be traded to the Dodgers down the road.”  
  
The next batter hit a whopper over the center fielder's head, bringing two runners home and ending the game in favor of the knit shop. The crowd cheered, and you along with them.  
  
I tapped you on the arm to bring you back. “So, do you think I got a shot?”  
  
You eyed me up and down, considering.  
  
“Yeah, you got a shot.”  
  
“Honest? You're not just saying that?”  
  
“I'm always honest. You're a solid two-way player. You've got a great arm and dead-eye aim, and a three fifty batting average. Any team would pay top dollar for that fastball of yours.”  
  
“I don't know,” I said. “I probably shouldn't go getting my hopes up too high.”  
  
“Sometimes hope's all we got. Listen, you're good, Buck. Really good. You don't need me to tell you that.”  
  
Maybe I didn't. But it was good hearing it anyway.

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

We were in the middle of a heat wave but things were downright chilly in our cell, what with you giving me the cold shoulder for the better part of a week. Why? I didn't know, and I was tired of always being the one to mend fences, so I let you be. For a couple of days. Until I just couldn't stand it anymore.  
  
I was lying on my bunk, tossing a ball up and catching it one-handed, watching you scribbling away at the little shelf you'd basically claimed as your own personal desk.  
  
“What are you writing?” I asked.  
  
No answer.  
  
“A letter? Who ya writing to?”  
  
I might as well have been talking to myself.  
  
“Hey asshole!” I sat up and kicked the leg of your chair. “What's with you anyway?”  
  
You didn't look up, didn't stop writing. All you did was say, “I met Connelly.”  
  
“Oh yeah? What of it?” I played it off but my heart skipped a beat at the name.  
  
“He showed up at one of my classes Monday morning. I've been trying to teach him how to read again, but he's pretty messed up. Not right in the head.”  
  
“So?”  
  
You turned around and fixed me with those hard blue marbles of yours. “So, you really fucked him up, Bucky. That ain't right.”  
  
I knew it wasn't right. Did you think I needed you to tell me that? But my hackles were up and I was playing defense something fierce.  
  
“He was a rat! Don't tell me you're gonna stick your neck out for a rat now, are you?”  
  
“Well, this rat had a family.”  
  
“Don't give me that shit. He had it coming.”  
  
“No, he didn't,” you said, and you turned your back on me. Like I'd been dismissed. Like I wasn't worth nothing.  
  
“You think you're so much better than everyone else?” I shouted at the back of your head. The more you ignored me, the more I saw red. “You don't even know why I did it!”  
  
“I'm sure you had your reasons.”  
  
I wanted to bust your head open for that. But something inside of me busted open instead.  
  
“They sent my mom.” The crack in my voice made you stop what you were doing, but you didn't turn around. “First Hank comes up here to tell me this guy Connelly's been threatening to sing, and to send him O'Toole's regards. Then not even a week later my mom shows up. 'Be a good boy and do what Mr. O'Toole says,' she tells me. 'We owe him so much,' she says. It wasn't just a message for Connelly he was sending, it was for me, too. And I got it, loud and clear. So you can just go take a flying leap off that damn high horse of yours. I hope you break your neck!”  
  
You turned and looked at me then, and your eyes had lost their hard edge. Somehow that just made me feel worse. “We've all done things we're not proud of, Buck.”  
  
“What do you know about it?” I said, more miserable than angry at that point.  
  
“Well, I haven't always been the fine upstanding citizen you see before you.”  
  
You came and sat alongside me, and rested your hand on my shoulder. “You don't have to let past mistakes define who you are. You have a choice. Every minute of every day that you're still breathing, you have a choice to do things different. For what it's worth, I don't think you're a bad guy, Bucky. In fact, I know you're not.”  
  
“Thanks,” I said, and I meant it. And for the record, it was worth a lot.  
  
You smiled at me then, that same soft smile I had seen on the woman in the photograph, and I wondered, why had you been hiding that from me all this time?

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

I didn't find out what you had been up to that night until almost a month later. You found me in the mess hall and squeezed in between me and Dugan at the table.  
  
You sure were excited about something; I could feel the energy buzzing off you like an electrostatic charge.  
  
“You know that letter to Senator Brandt I was writing?”  
  
“What letter?”  
  
“The one I was writing when I wasn't speaking to you.”  
  
“Was that the first time you weren't speaking to him, or the second?” Dugan asked.  
  
“The second.”  
  
“Oh yeah, sure. That letter.” I exchanged a look with Dugan, but you didn't seem interested in rising to the bait of our teasing. “Of course I remember. So what's it all about? You and the Senator pen-pals now?”  
  
“I just pled my case, told him the facts. Asked if he could look into it for me, maybe have a word with the parole board. Well, it worked! I have an early parole hearing in September.”  
  
I tried to muster a smile and a congratulations, because that's what you do when a friend gets good news. The knife twisting in my guts kind of made it hard, though. Fortunately Dugan was there to say it for me, complete with a hearty clap on the back that nearly knocked you off the bench.  
  
All I managed to say was, “So you're innocent? Just like the rest of us?”  
  
“Nah, I did it. But there were extenuating circumstances.”  
  
“Do tell.”  
  
That's when the walls came up again and you suddenly got real interested in that meatloaf in front of you.  
  
“Maybe later.”  
  
I thought you were giving me the brush off, but no. Later, after we'd settled our business for the night, you finally did confess to me and the darkness.  
  
“His name was Harry Malone,” you said, so quiet I wouldn't have heard you if you hadn't been cozied up to me so close your lips were practically to my ear.  
  
“The guy you offed?”  
  
“No, the guy I helped.”  
  
I should have known.  
  
“He was a good guy, Harry. He'd served with the 69th Infantry in France. Kind of a war hero – two Wound Ribbons and a Silver Star. He was lucky to never get gassed, but he saw a lot. By the time he got discharged he wasn't quite right anymore. Spent his time on a bar stool, telling war stories to a bottle of gin and anyone who would listen. That's how I met him. I worked at the Hideaway Club, and he was a regular.”  
  
Now I knew what kind of a joint the Hideaway was; everyone in Brooklyn knew. So I wasn't too surprised by what came next.  
  
“He was a mess,” you said. “but put him on a stage in a fancy dress with some high heeled shoes, and he just came to life. Really shone. He did a great Ethel Merman. Every time he sang I Got Rhythm the whole crowd would be on their feet by the end of it. He was that good.”  
  
“Were you sweet on him?”  
  
Maybe I was a little jealous hearing you talk about someone else like that – stupid and selfish under the circumstance, I know – but I didn't mean anything by it, and you weren't mad.  
  
“No, it wasn't like that.”  
  
You went quiet, and your body was tense up against me like a piano wire about to snap.  
  
“He wasn't hurting anybody. He was just trying to find a little happiness in this fucked up world, same as everybody else. And they beat him down like a dog. Everything he did, everything he went through meant nothing to those punks. To them, he was just a lousy fairy.”  
  
I stroked your back and felt the tension ease out of you bit by bit. You swiped at your eyes and sniffed, but when you started up again your voice was steady as ever.  
  
“I didn't mean to kill the guy. But if I hadn't he'd have killed Harry. I went for a smoke on my break and found these two assholes beating on him in the alley out back. I knew they were bad news when I'd seen them in the audience earlier – just had a feeling about them, you know?  Just didn't like the look of them. I hollered at them to stop, but they just started beating on me instead. Tossed me behind the dumpster and I guess they thought that was that. I had a shiv in my pocket, never had to use it before. And I don't even remember getting up and going after them. Last thing I remember I was on the ground and one of the guys was screaming that I'd killed his buddy. Woke up in the hospital cuffed to the bed, and it was all downhill from there.”  
  
“You did what you had to do. There's no shame in that.”  
  
“Doesn't change the fact that a man's life ended because of my actions. You think I don't still need to atone for that?”  
  
“I don't know about that, but I do know one thing.”  
  
“Yeah, what's that?”  
  
“You're okay, Rogers.”  
  
You heaved a big sigh and leaned in closer. “You're not so bad yourself, Barnes.”  
  
We kissed. Too soon, you broke away and climbed up onto your bunk. You always knew when to leave just before the guards came around, like you had a sixth sense about it or something. Came from being wary as a jack rabbit, I guess.

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

All through that August and September we had the series games and each other to fill up our free time. You seemed to have settled down a little, too. I don't think you had a single fight or visit to the hospital in all that time. On the downside, it was looking more and more likely we'd be facing the brush shop in the finals, and they eventually clinched it in their win over the knit shop three games to two.

Your parole hearing was on September 20. You looked pretty sharp in that suit they lent you, even if the sleeves fell almost to your fingertips and you had to roll the pant legs up. I even helped you knot your tie.

“How do I look?” you asked, all nervous like you were about to be the best man at your own funeral.

“Like a reformed man,” I said.

The guards came and took you away. An hour later you were back, looking[something more descriptive than] despondent.

“How'd it go?”

You didn't answer me, and I didn't push. Guess I was the sucker for assuming the worst.

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

Even short some of their best players, the Yankees won the pennant that year and went on to beat the Cardinals in the World Series four games to one. That meant the schedule for the final prison league series had to be pushed back and shortened to accommodate Mr. Stark's schedule. The Howling Coyotes were slated to play the Brush Shop Bruins starting October 16th in two consecutive double-headers held on Saturday and Sunday afternoon, with the final game of the series on Monday night, barring any unforeseen circumstances. As it turned out, there were a few of those.

There was a decent crowd filling the public bleachers and the inmate side was full up as usual. While the band struck up _The Star-Spangled Banner_ I looked around to see if I could spot Mr. Stark in the crowd. I'd almost convinced myself he was a no-show until I picked him out in Warden Kirby's box behind home plate. Somehow, knowing he was there like he said he would be calmed my nerves. When I stepped out onto the mound and tossed the first pitch, I was cool as a cucumber.

From the start, we had the momentum and the crowd's support. It carried us all the way to an easy win in nine innings. The final score of the first game: five to three.

During the intermission between games, I came over to where you were sitting to give you the opportunity to congratulate me.

“One down, four to go. We did pretty good, huh?”

“Yeah,” you said. “You did pretty good.”

I knew that face, though. The one that said, “But you could have done it better if...”

“Okay, what? What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing. It's just...you might be tipping your pitches a little. Every time you go for a curve ball your glove finger comes loose. I think that's one reason they got so many hits off you.”

Of course, my first thought was to tell you you were crazy. Before I had a chance to say it, Kruger stood up at the end of the bench and bellowed at me.

“Get back on the field, Barnes!”

I gave him a look and headed back out to the mound.

The second game they stepped up their defense and we only scored three runs. The first curve ball I threw proved you right – my damn finger did come away from my glove. One minor correction later, I pitched a shutout and just like that we were up two games to nothing.

After the final out was called, me and the guys were celebrating and congratulating ourselves outside the dugout. Stark spotted me and made his way over. This time he actually did hug me.

“Great game, kid, great game! Keep it up and you and your pals will be a shoe-in for that trophy.” He turned with his arm still around my shoulder. “I want you to meet someone. This here's my chief talent scout, Joe Riley. Joe, this is that fastball I was telling you about.”

Mr. Riley was a middle-aged guy with a dour face and the stub of a stogie tucked in the corner of his mouth. He gave me a curt nod and shook my hand at Stark's insistence, but if he thought anything of my performance that day he kept it to himself. Then he and Stark got pulled away by Warden Kirby's assistant so they could rub elbows with more important people. I couldn't feel too bad about it, though. After all, I actually got to meet the guy and there were still three games left for me to make a good impression.

We had our victory dinner with the warden and his family in the officers' mess hall that night. Even though Mr. Stark couldn't stay for it, he was big enough to provide chefs all the way from the Savoy. They turned the place into a five star dining experience, complete with white linen tablecloths and waiters in penguin suits with bow ties and tails. I'd have felt like a free man if it weren't for the guards on either side of the door keeping an eye on us.

Wish you could have been there, but it was probably for the best that you weren't. That steak would have given you the worst indigestion, and then I'd have had to deal with that all night.

 ⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

I admit I was kind of regretting that big meal the next day. Maybe I can't blame what happened on too much filet mignon and chocolate souffle, but I was off my game even before you turned up missing. The brush shop took the lead early and held it.

During the seventh inning stretch, while the band played and the crowd sang along to _Take Me Out to the Ballgame_ , me and the guys sat sullen in the dugout. The popular theory was that you were overdue for either a knock-down, drag-out fight or a major medical catastrophe. Either way, odds were you were laid up in the hospital.

“It's probably nothing,” I said, not too convincingly. “It's just killing me not knowing for sure.”

“No problem,” Dernier said. “If he is there, I find out.”

The next pop fly to left field, Dernier muffed it and the ball hit him right in the head. He made a big enough show of it that they stopped the game for a few minutes, and he was finally escorted off the field and up to the hospital to get checked out. Manelli came in for him for the rest of the game, and we lost three to two.

Dernier came back with his head all bandaged up before the bottom of the ninth. When we came off the field I ran right over to him in the dugout.

“What happened? Was he there?”

He shook his head, real solemn like. “Very bad. One big bruise, from the top of his head to the bottoms of his feet.”

Well, I knew that was probably an exaggeration. Didn't stop my blood from boiling.

“Who did it?”

Dernier shrugged. “Je ne sais pas.”

To add insult to injury, I caught sight of Stark and Riley leaving early so they didn't see the horror show that was game four. We were all off kilter, me not throwing strikes and the rest of the guys not making plays. We lost that lousy game four to one. By the end of it I didn't even care. All I could think about was you laying in that hospital bed all busted up.

That night, it was Hodge's team got the royal treatment. The rest of us poor slobs had to make do in the regular old mess hall with the regular old mess. It hardly mattered, though. Between worrying about you and beating myself up over losing the damn games, my stomach was so twisted up I could barely eat a thing. And if the sour looks on the rest of the team's faces were anything to go by, they felt the same.

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

The next day, I got special dispensation to visit you in the hospital after lunch. On the up-and-up this time, I didn't even have to hurt myself. Dark clouds were rolling in up the Hudson as I crossed the courtyard to the hospital. Smelled like rain and more bad luck.  
  
They had you up on the second floor this time. When I caught sight of you in that bed all I could say was, “Aw geez.”  
  
In all the time I knew you, I never saw you so busted up – half your face was one big bruise with one eye swollen shut. Your nose was probably broken, too, and your arm was bandaged up and in a sling.  
  
“Looks worse than it is,” you said, trying to smile through a fat lip.  
  
“The hell it does.”  
  
I sat on the edge of your bed and waited until Nurse Peggy was occupied with another patient further down the row. Then I leaned in close.  
  
“Who did this to you?”  
  
You just shook your head. “Leave it alone, Buck.  
  
“Tell me.”  
  
“It's not worth it.”  
  
“Tell me.” My voice was rising with my anger. I mean, why the hell would you want to protect the asshole who did that to you?  
  
You just looked at me real steady with your one good eye and kept your mouth shut.    
  
“Tell me!” The clang of the metal bed frame hitting the wall rang through the ward when I smacked it.  
  
“Mr. Barnes! I think you had better leave.”  
  
Nurse Peggy was up and walking towards me. I guess she thought better of it and stopped a safe distance away. By then the duty guard had left his station by the door and was on me, dragging me out of the ward.  
  
“I'll find out,” I called back to you. “You bet your ass I will find out.”  
  
The guard kept hold of me all the way down the hall. When we got to the stairs, there was Kruger leaning against the bannister like a truant.  
  
“I'll take it from here, Sam,” he said, grabbing me by the arm. He waited for the other guard to leave before escorting me down the stairs. But before we got out the door, he took a sharp left and dragged me into some kind of storage room.  
  
I yanked away from him and backed up between two big shelves full of file boxes.  
  
“What's the big idea?”  
  
Kruger stood there blocking the door. My heart was pounding getting ready for a fight, but I wasn't afraid of him. He had the advantage of a few inches and a billy club on me, but I figured I could take him down if it came to that.  
  
“You want to know who did that to your girlfriend?” I never wanted to punch the smug off someone's face more than I did at that moment, but I kept it in check.  
  
“Are you saying you know something?”  
  
“I know a lot of things. You boys aren't nearly as clever or sneaky as you think.” I didn't want to dwell on what he might have on me.  
  
“Yeah? What's it gonna cost me?”  
  
Kruger shrugged. “Nothing. I like the little guy. He's got spunk. I think it's a shame what happened to him. I'd just be doing my good deed for the day.”  
  
“Okay, so spill it.”  
  
By the time we got outside, the sky had opened up and big, thick drops started falling. All the way back to the cell block, the name Gilmore Hodge rang in my skull. I should have figured Kruger had his own motives for telling me – he just wasn't the good-deed-doing type – but I'd be damned if I was going to let Hodge get away with what he did to you. I might catch hell for it, but consequences be damned. I'd already blown my shot at the big time. I didn't have anything left to lose.  
  
We got word around three o'clock: game called on account of rain.

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

The next morning I recruited Dugan and a couple of the other guys. In the time it took to walk from the cell block to the bathhouse and get out of our clothes, we had a plan. And wouldn't you know, Kruger was the duty guard escorting us, along with Sergeant Duffy. I took it as a sign. If Kruger was good to his word, he'd give me enough time to get the job done – just like with Connelly. That was a pretty big if, but I was willing to chance it.  
  
Dernier and Morita would be the diversion, kicking up a scuffle outside to keep the guards busy. As soon as they were broken up, Morris and Clark would start. Then Sawyer and Czarnecki. I'd have five, maybe seven minutes. If Hodge was lucky, he'd get as good as he gave you. If he wasn't, well, I figured I might just earn myself a spot in the Dance Hall on the way to meet Old Sparky.  
  
I waited until Hodge's back was turned, then I ducked into the shower room real quick and skirted the far wall so he wouldn't make me right away. A few minutes later we got the call to finish up. One by one, the denizens of cell block A all toweled off, got dressed and headed out the door. When I saw Dernier and Morita leave, I gave Jones the nod. He grabbed Hodge's arm and pretended to talk to him about something, until the shouts and jeers of the staged fight started up outside. Duffy was already outside trying to break it up. Everyone else ran out to see what was up, and Kruger along with them.  
  
Hodge heard the ruckus and made a move towards the door. Monty and Dugan closed ranks to block it, and that's when he knew he was in trouble.  
  
I rushed him. He saw me coming and dodged, running smack into Jones. I got in two good shots to the head before he could even swing at me. He missed, and when he came at me again Jones gave him a shove from behind. Hodge slipped on the clammy tiles and planted face-first on the floor. I threw my weight on him before he could get up, pressing my knee into his back and my elbow into his neck. With my free hand I got hold of his throwing arm and wrenched it back. He thrashed and cursed at me, but I had him pinned good.  
  
“You get a kick out of beating up on little guys, huh? How about I break your arm and see how you like it?”  
  
“It ain't my fault he's built like a toothpick,” Hodge snarled.  
  
So Kruger told the truth. I had the right guy. I leaned on him and wrenched his arm up, and that's all it took to get him to drop the tough guy act and start singing a sweeter tune.  
  
“Please don't hurt me! I didn't wanna do it. I needed for us to win. I needed that hundred dollars!”  
  
“We all do, asshole.”  
  
“No, you don't understand. My kid's real sick. I needed the money for the doctors.”  
  
“Save it for someone who cares,” I said, but truth be told I was starting to lose my stomach for it. He was probably lying just to save his skin, but I guess maybe I half believed him about the kid.  
  
“Time's a' wasting, Buck,” Dugan said. “Quit jawing and finish it.”  
  
He was right. I came to do a job and I was gonna finish it. I gritted my teeth and wrenched Hodge's arm up again. He yowled like a Nancy and I leaned on him harder. Another inch and I would have torn something for sure.  
  
“Kruger! It was Kruger put me up to it!”  
  
I eased off him just a bit, against my better judgment. Or maybe because of it.  
  
“Why the fuck would he do that?”  
  
“He had money on the game...on my team. He offered me a payout if I tipped the odds.” That's when the tears started flowing, and he could barely choke out the rest between the sobs. “And my kid is real sick. Honest. I needed that money!”  
  
In a flash I realized Kruger's game and how he'd nearly won it. The bastard set me up. If I fucked up Hodge, it would take me out of the game, probably even get me banned from ever playing again. Hell, half the team was a party to it; we'd probably have to forfeit the game. Kruger gets his money, Hodge gets his cut, and I'm left holding the bag. Again. Only worse, because it wasn't just my future on the line; I jeopardized the rest of the team's, too. Some team captain I was, leading them down the wrong damn road.  
  
“Why not just go after me?” I asked, but I kinda already knew the answer.  
  
“You're O'Toole's man. I ain't stupid.”  
  
I looked at Hodge, pressed against the tiles and cowering, his face all red from crying. He wasn't actually a bad guy, but he had it wrong. He was pretty stupid. Stupid and easily manipulated. We weren't so different, I guess.  
  
I let up on him and stepped away. “Go on, get outta here.”  
  
Hodge got up and just stood there looking at me like he didn't believe it.  
  
“I said go!” I hollered and lunged at him.  
  
He jumped and made a beeline for the door. Dugan and Monty moved to cut off his escape.  
  
“Buck, what are you doing?” Dugan said.  
  
“Just let him go. We've been played.”  
  
Dugan looked at me, then Monty. For a minute I thought I was going to have to fight them, but they stood down. Hodge pushed past them, but before he could make it through the door, in came Kruger and Duffy.  
  
“Alright, break it up!” Kruger said, even though by that time there was nothing really to break up. I almost laughed at all the hot air he was blowing.  
  
“Do we have a problem here, gentlemen?” Duffy directed the question to Dugan.  
  
“No problem, Sarge. We're just having a friendly conversation.” Dugan smiled and clapped Hodge on the back a little harder than a friend might.  
  
Kruger advanced on Hodge until they were practically nose-to-nose. “Is that so?”    
  
“Yeah,” Hodge said, not looking him in the eye, “just a friendly conversation.”  
  
“Glad to hear it. Now, clear out, all of you!” Duffy said, waving us towards the door.  
  
If Duffy hadn't been there, you can bet Kruger would have beaten the hell out of Hodge and blamed us. He gave me a black look on the way out, and I knew I was gonna have trouble with him from then on.

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

Like Casey Stengel once said, there are three things you can do in a baseball game: you can win, or you can lose, or it can rain.  Well, we won two, lost two, and down came the rain. It let up around noon that day, but Mr. Stark was out of town so the final game of the series was delayed yet again. Then Wednesday, October 20 dawned and it was a beautiful day for baseball. Not a cloud in the sky, and the breeze coming in off the Hudson didn't even smell too bad for a change.  
  
They escorted the inmates to their seats to get settled in and secured before letting in the general public and the VIPs. We were warming up in left field when I picked you out of the line of guys filing in. Your arm was still in a sling and you were walking pretty slow. Can't say you were gonna win any beauty contests with your face all banged up like that, but at least you could open both your eyes so I guess that was something.  
  
There was a minor traffic jam getting everyone seated, so while you were waiting to get up into the bleachers me and the guys came over to welcome you back. Dugan grabbed you up in a big bear hug, and the rest of them crowded around you, asking how you were and what was broken and how the food up in the hospital was.  
  
“Okay, okay, give him some air!” I said, shoving them back. “Nice of you to grace us with your presence, your majesty.”  
  
“Yeah well, somebody has to make sure you lot stay on your toes. What do ya say, fellas – are we gonna give 'em hell today or what?”  
  
We responded with a chorus of yips and howls. None of us city boys had ever heard an actual coyote, but I'd be willing to bet we weren’t too far off.  
  
The jam cleared up and you took your seat. Sergeant Duffy waved us back over to finish our warm ups. There was a bit of a stir when Warden Kirby showed up with Mr. Stark and his small entourage. I wasn't too nervous, until I noticed all the reporters following them in, and the newsreel crew setting up to catch the highlights of the game. Once the warden and Mr. Stark took their seats up behind home plate, both teams lined up, caps off, for the National Anthem.  
  
The band finished playing. Jones, our starting batter was up, with Monty on deck, and the game was officially underway.  
  
The crowd was electric. The energy coming off them had me buzzing, both the inmates sitting along the third base line and the regular Joes in the public bleachers along first. They'd come to see a real game, and by the sound of them they weren't disappointed. It was a contest between two hungry teams, so even though we got an early lead with two runs in the second, it wasn't a walk in the park. The brush shop boys made us earn those and every run after. They were good that day, but we were better. I landed pitch after pitch in the strike zone. On offense our hitters were getting on base and our clean up crew kept bringing 'em home. By the sixth inning we were up five to nothing.  
  
They did a good job shutting down runs after that. By the bottom of the ninth, I was getting kind of tired and their hitters took full advantage. Franklin knocked one out of left field with three men on base. Suddenly they were within striking distance of that trophy. They got two strikeouts and one more base hit off me before Hodge was up at bat again. 

He wasn't any the worse for wear after our run-in the day before. After two straight strikes he was all about protecting the plate, swinging at everything. My last pitch – a slider, low and away, just for old time's sake – ended in a foul ball over the first base line.

Jones scrambled and made the game-winning catch for the final out.  
  
When the dust settled, the final tally was five runs, nine hits, no errors, four men left on base for the Howling Coyotes; four runs, six hits, no errors, and two men left on base for the Bruins.  
  
Me and the guys shook hands with Hodge and his team. It was a clean game and we won it fair and square. No hard feelings. Then Howard Stark and his small entourage came down from their seats with Warden Kirby. They headed onto the mound, where a crew was setting up a mic. Stark waved me over, and I broke into a trot, smiling all the way.  
  
Up there on the mound, it was just me, Warden Kirby, and Howard Stark, surrounded by a sea of popping flash bulbs. Stark looked out at the reporters crowding around, and beyond them to the inmates still sitting up in their bleachers under the watchful eyes of the guards, and he was totally at ease. Didn't matter where he was. All the world was a stage to that guy and you couldn't help but be captivated by him.  
  
When the crowd settled down a little, Warden Kirby handed Stark the championship trophy and he stepped up to the mic.  
  
“Some say baseball is just a game. But I think we who are gathered here on this field know better. Baseball is life. You win some, you lose some. The men who played on this field today have suffered more than their share of losses. Yet they proved that even when you're down and out, with persistence and hard work you can climb your way back up again. So it is with great pleasure and respect that I bestow this championship trophy on Sing Sing's best and brightest, the Howling Coyotes.”  
  
He held that trophy out and I took hold of it. The Warden leaned in and all three of us smiled real big for the cameras.  
  
“So, Mr. Barnes,” Stark said, “what do you think of all the hoopla?”  
  
“This is the greatest thing that ever happened to me since I was born!”  
  
Stark laughed and clapped me on the back. Then he put an arm around my shoulder and turned to work the cameras some more. I felt like a star at the center of the universe standing next to him. If this was a taste of what it was like in the big leagues, I was hungry for more.  
  
Pretty soon the reporters had all got what they came for, and the crowd started to thin. Before Stark and company cleared out, Joe Riley, the scout, came up to me and shook my hand.  
  
“Great game, kid,” he said, handing me his card. “Call me when you get out.”  
  
I was grinning so hard my face hurt. You better believe I memorized that number before we even left the field, just in case. Things have a way of getting lost in here and I wasn't gonna chance it.

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

We had dinner at the Sing Sing Savoy again that night. I squirreled away a couple of tiny sandwiches and chocolate truffles in my pocket for you, indigestion be damned. We sat on my bunk talking about I don't even remember what, me handing you the fancy little tidbits one by one and you eating them against your better judgment.  
  
What I do remember is the way you kept looking at me, like... I can't even describe it. Like you saw something actually worth looking at. Like you couldn't get enough of me. It kinda made me antsy, and part of me wanted to hide but there was nowhere to go in a five-by-eight cell. Stupid, right? It's just, no one had ever looked at me like that before, unless they were working some sort of angle, always wanting something in return. Not you, though. I think all you wanted was me.  
  
It was almost a relief when you climbed up on your bunk, and the guards made their rounds, and the lights finally went out. You came back down right away and settled in next to me, but I could hide in the dark so it was okay.  
  
You moved right in for the kiss, but I pulled back.  
  
“I don't want to mess around with your arm all busted.”  
  
“It ain't busted,” you said, nuzzling up against my ear. "It's just a sprain.”  
  
“Oh, well that's okay then.”  
  
All the times before had been fast and furtive; they had to be to keep ahead of the guards. That night was different. We took our time, and between the kissing and slow shedding of clothes and the way you rubbed up against me, I thought I was gonna die from the want of you.  
  
I think that was your plan, right? To get me so frantic I'd agree to anything. Well, you won again, buddy.  
  
I wanted in, but every time I tried to get between your legs or turn you over, you wouldn't budge. Finally, you must have got tired of my pawing and you shoved me back.  
  
“No, you.”  
  
I laid there panting, my mind rebelling but the rest of me aching for it. It wasn't much of a contest. The rest of me won. I turned over and you slid up behind me, rubbing your hand up my back.  
  
“Relax”  
  
I knew that was probably good advice, but I couldn't do it. You spit in your hand and started working me with your fingers. With patience and some skill, you brought me around. Pretty soon I had to stuff the corner of the pillow in my mouth to stifle the moans.  
  
Then you were pushing inside me and I was arching up to meet you. I didn't want to like it as much as I did, but that night you had me wishing I'd let you do it sooner. You didn't last long, but I won't hold that against you. It only took a couple of flicks of the wrist for me to catch up. Afterward, I grabbed hold of you and held on tight, planting breathless kisses on your sweaty forehead.  
  
“Stay. Stay with me.” It was out of my mouth before I could catch it. You tensed and half sat up, and I thought somehow I'd fucked up by asking. Maybe you were just listening for the guards, though, because you relaxed and settled in again. You stayed all night, and the guards didn't even do a bed check, and in the morning you were still curled up in my arms, and I thought I'd have a pretty easy year of it with you by my side.  
  
Joke was on me I guess, because not even a week later, you were gone.

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

The worst thing about you leaving wasn't that you didn't tell me, it's that I had to hear about it from Kruger of all people. That still sticks in my craw.  
  
We were in the yard with the guys, reliving the highlights of last night's big game when that smarmy bastard came sidling up, like he'd been invited to join us.  
  
“Hey Rogers, congratulations! I bet Monday can't come soon enough.”  
  
“What's that supposed to mean?” I asked you, not him.  
  
“Didn't he tell you?” Kruger's voice dripped with fake concern. “The Parole Board bought his story. He'll be a free man soon.”  
  
Kruger shot me a snide grin and walked off, while the rest of the guys crowded around you, cheering and laughing.  
  
I couldn't even look at you I was so mad.  
  
I took off while everyone was still congratulating you. The ball field was mostly deserted but for a couple of guys tossing a ball back and forth along the third base line. I climbed up onto the empty bleachers and watched them. Eventually you wandered over and sat one step below me.  
  
You didn't say anything, just pulled a deck of smokes out of your sling and offered me one. I took it, then you tossed me some matches after lighting one up yourself. We smoked in silence, me fuming mad and you – whatever was going on in your head you weren't letting me in on it.  
  
As usual, it was me that broke the silence first.  
  
“Why didn't you tell me?”  
  
“I was going to. Later. Probably tonight.”  
  
“Yeah, but why didn't you tell me before?”  
  
“I didn't... I didn't want to upset you or be a distraction. Before the games, you know? I thought you might blow it on account of me.”  
  
“Bullshit!”  
  
“It's not bullshit. I was right. You blew not one but two whole games worrying about me!”  
  
“I what? You think we lost because of you?” I forced a laugh. “You're really full of yourself there, Rogers.”  
  
“Yeah, and you're full of something else.”  
  
A couple more guys wandered onto the field while we smoked. The wind kicked up a little bit and you shivered into your flannel jacket.  
  
“You think that's stupid? That I'd worry about you?”  
  
You turned around, your eyes squinting against the weak autumn sun behind me.  
  
“Nah, it's not stupid,” you said. “Or if it is, then we're both idiots.”  
  
I climbed down and sat next to you. No sense wasting the last few days together fighting.  
  
“Got any plans for when you get out?”  
  
“Yeah, I told you. I'm gonna enlist.”  
  
Once you set your mind to something there was no talking sense to you. You were gonna do whatever you were gonna do, no matter what I thought of it. So it was probably best I kept my thoughts to myself.  
  
“Well, if you need a place to stay for awhile, I can talk to my mom. She'll take you in.”  
  
“Thanks Buck, but I can get by on my own.”  
  
“You always were a stubborn ass, you know that?”  
  
You just shrugged and smirked. I was torn between wanting to hug you and wanting to put you in a headlock and pound some sense into you. Of course, under the eyes of the watchtower I couldn't do either. So I just rested a hand on the small of your back, where no one could see.  
  
You got a funny look on your face, like maybe you wanted to tell me something.  
  
“What?” I prompted.  
  
You chewed your lower lip, debating, then finally said, “You could do me one favor, I guess.”  
  
“Like I haven't done enough for you already.” I took a drag on my cig. “Okay, what is it?”  
  
“I want to say goodbye to Peggy.”  
  
I leaned back and gave you a shove. “You are a certified, grade-A asshole, you know that?”  
  
You just smiled. There was no way on this earth I could refuse you. And you knew it, didn't you?  
  
“Okay.” I stubbed my smoke out on the bleacher and tossed it, ready for action. “What do you want me to do? Punch you in the nose?”  
  
You stood up, taking your final drag and then flicked the butt away.  
  
“Nah,” you said. “All you gotta do is catch me.”  
  
I almost didn't, you dropped so fast.  
  
Then there I was, with you fake-wheezing in my arms, running like crazy towards the hospital and calling for help so the guards in the watchtower wouldn't shoot me. Maybe we both should have been on Broadway!  
  
I left you in the lower ward as the doctor, duty nurse and orderlies swarmed around you. And maybe I caught the sly wink you gave me when I looked back, just before I was escorted out the door.

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

And that was the last I saw of you. I'm still pretty bent I didn't get to say a proper goodbye. By Sunday I was going out of my mind. I even tried getting sent to the hospital by faking food poisoning, but the guards didn't bite. They let you out Monday while I was at the shop. When I came back from supper that night, all your stuff was gone. I understand why, but I don't know if I can forgive you for spending your last days with her instead of me.  
  
You left your pictures here. I guess you meant for me to have them, so thanks for that. They're up on the wall where they belong now, so I can look at them first thing when I wake up and last thing before lights out. It helps, a little.  
  
There's a lot more I never told you. Still won't – all this is too long for a letter and besides that they read everything going out and coming in. Too many incriminating details, so I think I might just burn it. I'm not sure why I even bothered writing it all down. Guess I just don't want to forget. Every day here is just like the last, and I got another three hundred and eighty-seven days of it. Maybe I'll write a proper letter to you someday, when I know where in the world you are.  
  
Maybe I should have told you all this before you left. Like how I think you saved my life, and how I think the world's a better place for having you in it, and how I'm a better man for having known you. We all are – me and the team, we've been looking out for the little guys and keeping the peace in the yard since you left. Even Hodge is behaving himself better.  
  
We all got good and bad seeds in us, it's just some of us have more of one than the other. Prison's like a hothouse that brings out what's inside, so good men become great and bad men become worse. It all depends on which seeds you water. I could have gone either way. But you? You're okay, Rogers. You always were, and I'm pretty sure whatever happens, you always will be.

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

TO: James Buchanan Barnes ID#40A3255  
Sing Sing Correctional Facility  
Ossining, New York

January 3, 1944

Dear Bucky,  
  
You're not going to believe this, but I'm in the Army now! It took half a dozen tries and nearly getting arrested for lying on my enlistment forms, but they finally saw reason and let me in. I met a doctor who put in a good word for me and I was accepted into this program of his. I can't say much about it because of state secrets, but that's okay because I don't really know much about it, anyway. In a couple of weeks I'll be shipping out of here, and they say I'll be a new man. I might make it over to France yet!  
  
Sorry I didn't get a chance to say goodbye. I hope you're not too sore about it. Not even an hour after you left me at the hospital, I had the worst asthma attack of my life. Really thought I was a goner that time. That's what I get for fibbing, I guess. They had to keep me in until I was well enough, and before I knew it, it was time for me to go. They wouldn't let me go down to the auto shop to see you, they just escorted me off the premises like they couldn't wait to be rid of me.  
  
Say hello to Peggy, Dugan, and the rest of the team for me. And keep your nose clean. I expect to be seeing you on the mound at Yankee Stadium opening day next year!  
  
Yours truly,  
  
Steven Grant Rogers

⚾⚾⚾⚾⚾

                                  
TO: PVT Steven G. Rogers  
Camp Lehigh  
Wheaton, New Jersey

  
  
February 19, 1944

  
Dear Steve,  
  
Congratulations and all that.  I don't know if I should be more worried about you or the Army!  
  
You'll be happy to know I got one of those home study scholarships and I'm taking some night classes now that the weather's turned cold. Ain't nothing else to do until baseball season starts, and I never did get a new cell mate to while away the time with. Besides, imagine me a college boy, huh? My mom would be over the moon.  
  
Things have shaken up here. Warden Kirby died of pneumonia last month. We got a new warden named Schmidt – seems like a real hard ass and he keeps making speeches about all of the changes he's got in store for the place. I'm really looking forward to that, I can tell you. It's a good thing more than half of my time is behind me.  
  
Nurse Peggy's gone. She followed your lead and joined up. Maybe you'll run into each other in France. Old Doc Squire's gone, too. Good riddance, but I'm not sure his replacement is much better.  Little guy with beady eyes, name of Zola. Kind of gives me the creeps. Sounds foreign, but I guess he's supposed to be real smart. We got a program here, too, and they're looking for volunteers. Not sure what it's about but they say it'll help the war effort. And we all need to do our part, right? So I guess I'll put my name in the hat. I may even get an early parole out of the bargain.  
  
Don't go throwing yourself on any grenades.  
  
Your friend,  
  
James Barnes (Bucky)

**Author's Note:**

> (1) Set in an AU but (somewhat, kind of) historically accurate version of Sing Sing, New York's State penitentiary on the Hudson. I've taken some liberties with the facts in order to adhere to the prompt and fill in details that research could not. For example, the cells were singles so there was no actual chance of them sharing a bunk. Formerly, in times of overcrowding they did double up, but prior to 1943 the practice had been discontinued in order to cut down on homosexual activities between the inmates.  
> (2) My knowledge of baseball is rudimentary, so apologies for any flagrant mistakes related to the mechanics or lingo of the game. I'm totally faking it.  
> (3) Sing Sing did have a baseball league, and the Yankees did play there! Not in 1943, though. Both the Giants and the Yankees played exhibition games at the prison in the 1920s and 1930s. In fact, Babe Ruth hit what is believed to be his longest home run on Lawes Field at Sing Sing in 1929. The prison league playoff series is loosely based on a series sponsored by Sir Thomas Lipton (the tea baron) in 1920, who was a patron of the prison and its baseball team and a good friend of then-Warden Lawes.  
> (4) Officially, the varsity Sing Sing team was called the Mutual Welfare League team, but they went by other more baseball-y names over the years, including the Black Sheep and the Orioles. I thought using Howling Commandos for a prison team might be considered at the time to be in poor taste and disrespectful of the armed forces in a time of war, so I settled on the Howling Coyotes instead.  
> (5) The “Dance Hall” is a reference to the cells along Death Row and “Old Sparky” is Sing Sing's infamous electric chair.  
> (6) “This is the greatest thing that ever happened to me since I was born!” - I shamelessly stole this line from Casey Stengel, who said it after the Yankees won the pennant in 1949. I have no idea what year he might have uttered the quote about rain, or if Bucky would have been alive to hear it.  
> (7) A thousand thanks to Overlithe for the awesome cheerleading and beta, and to P my baseball consultant! Any remaining mistakes or liberties I've taken with the game are entirely on me.


End file.
